


Asylum

by theendofera



Category: Original Work
Genre: Asylum, Reminising, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 07:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10658277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theendofera/pseuds/theendofera
Summary: Asylumnoun1.The protection granted by a state to someone who has left their home country as a political refugee.2. An institution for the care of people who are mentally ill."he'd been committed to an asylum"synonyms: psychiatric hospital, mental hospital, mental institution, mental asylum, institution;





	Asylum

It is night, framed in a window. Your fingers collect splinters as they are dragged across the wooden square.  
Burnished trees bare branches reach up through the misty grey blanket below. Lengths of pipes cling to the building, sliding down, reaching into the abyss.  
Once pristine gardens grow wild, desolate and dreary left in the space, occupied for the sake of occupation. A pine forest stretches out beyond faint, glowing lights of a distant rural town. All out there, becomes a dripping water-colour blur, with the inky blackness creeping in from the edges.  
The moon illuminates the slow roll of fog past the broken and barred window, casting an eerie light through the buildings shattered remains. Sharp shapes slice like knives against the dark, protruding from the corners of the window frame. Relieved in the silence that surrounds them now, collapsed, decaying remains of furniture sit, safe inside, reflecting the abuse of many years. The rafters are silent, deep in contemplation above.

As you walk down the corridor it reiterates the silent, matronly footsteps of people of the past.  
Nurses, doctors, guards.  
The swish of uniforms and coat tails, briskly rebound through the halls until you reach an isolated room. You turn the doorknob.  
A hesitant creaking of the door sounds like a vacant, dying moan of a past patient. A man’s fading soul leaving this place. Outside the room, rusted equipment hangs on clawed hooks on the faded walls, twisted and disfigured.  
Wind scrapes the tools against the wall. The rough surfaces voice wails of its past. Its unspoken past screamed through the wind.  
A gasping shallow breath is heard as the branches of trees grate against the damaged tiled roof as your footsteps walk back to the window.

As the lights beyond the forest blink out, the only gold is the shine of the wires forcing themselves from the walls, probing, piercing eyes from within. Wall panels have fallen out, exposing the golden red wires escaping all over the building. It appears the walls are claiming the space from people with slow, tentative curiosity.

You turn. Chairs lie scattered haphazardly in the corner, skeletal structures covered in scraps of worn leather. Still roaming the corridors your fingers touch and the paint peels back, scaling with age. Passed the wrought iron beds, bent and broken, burdened bed springs covered in wrinkled moldy sheets, now writhing in their own pain. Breathe in. You can smell the stale air, synthesized in the antisocial approach practised. Emptiness blindingly apparent, seen in lack of breath.

The overwhelming smell of decay hits your nose. Pale, sickly grey-green curtains are in various states of disarray missing curtain rings, draping themselves, slumping down the clammy walls. The walls tell old hopes over and over. Words in black marker on tiles of white. Water drips, reinforced in the brown staining pools on the baths and rust on the edge of taps creeping ever upwards to find hope. All elements in this room from the harsh sterile floor to the scarred tubs, have the cold clinging frantically to them. It reveals the horror that reality has become for the patients. The society of the time enforced the terrible things the building and yet it survived.

Move slow. Away from the tiles of the bathroom your feet crunch over discarded pills, scattered across the brittle, breakable, bone dry wood of the hall floors, whispers of dust that saw others here in a distant memory.

As you leave the building you look back tracing the silhouette of the building with your eyes. The aura of the building emanates its presence, casting its stance in the foundation. The corpse of the place decomposing becoming one with it’s surroundings as it is now free.

You can hear the deafening silence radiating echoing throughout the building. Soon wind picks up, screams, and with it, you feel the house resettling itself revelling in the freedom expressed in the mossy corners and the sound reverberates through the hollow, ivy covered pipes. The wail of the wind seems justified. 

It is night, felt in the length of the cold shadows and the encroaching chill of the fog. It is wild, the bedraggled remains of the building looms. The shell of the house, the people who once were, souls that were trimmed, treated and trampled, now wild, left in peace to roam free. Only you can hear the howls of the void snapping at your skin, like wolves to a bison, too clumsy, big and slow to fight back. Feel the lingering force of the world outside, the wind whipping past.

In the sands of time, another discarded.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think.  
> Cheers guys
> 
> \- Not Elizabeth


End file.
